High Tide (6 page)

‘I must go or I’ll miss my appointment. I’ll see you at the church later.’

Sunny wrapped her in another hug. ‘Take care, lovely.’

Kate hurried on, up around the back of the town and along the road that led to Shoredown, where the warren of lanes containing the less salubrious houses of Pennfleet spilled out, with their jacked-up cars and overflowing bins and drawn curtains. It wasn’t always a picnic, living at the seaside. People forgot that behind the picturesque harbour and the bobbing boats and sense that life was one long holiday there were people struggling to make a living in a town that had little industry but for the tourists. And the winters were long for those who made their money from those tourists. If the permanent inhabitants of Pennfleet knew anything, it was how to make hay while the sun shone. And that sun would be dwindling even more in the next month or so, along with the number of visitors, until the long dark winter finally arrived.

Kate could remember only too clearly the hardship of some of her friends at school – the debt and the poverty. It was surprising there wasn’t more hostility towards the second-homers. They were seen as a necessary evil, propping up the economy, but also inflating the house prices.

‘Kate!’ A voice was calling after her. ‘Kate! It’s me.’

She turned to see a woman running down the hill carrying a small girl, waving at her with her spare arm. She recognised the voice rather than the slight figure with the long black hair, dressed in skinny jeans and a pink vest with silver glitter.

Debbie. Her best friend from school. Her partner in crime since they’d first set eyes on each other on arrival at Pennfleet High. It was probably ten years since they had last spoken.

‘Oh my God! Debbie!’ Kate beamed with pleasure.

‘I thought it was you!’ Debbie panted as she came to a stop. The child on her hip gazed solemnly at Kate while they spoke, her fine blonde hair tied up in a Pebbles ponytail on top of her head.

‘I’m so sorry about your mum.’ Debbie’s face was screwed up in anxiety. She was fully made up, even at this hour in the morning, heavy eyebrows and full lips drawn in and ridiculously long lashes.

‘Thank you.’

‘She was amazing, you know. She was brilliant to me just after I had Leanne.’ Debbie indicated her daughter, who was casually kicking her mum with a leopardskin baseball boot. ‘I broke my leg. I couldn’t do a thing. She was so helpful. She got me back on track. I was right depressed.’ Debbie tickled Leanne under the chin. The little girl giggled. ‘I’m going to try and get to the funeral later if I can get someone to pick up Leanne.’

‘That’s really kind of you. But you don’t have to.’ Kate was touched.

‘No. I want to! She was a very special woman.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Shout if you want anything. I’m usually about. Got my hands full with this lot – she’s number four.’

‘Goodness.’ Kate couldn’t imagine having four children. ‘They must keep you busy.’

‘Just a bit. I work down the Neptune weekends to keep body and soul together – Scott has the kids. Gives me some of me own money and gets me out of the house.’

Debbie shook back her long black hair with the thick blunt fringe and smiled. She was as thin as a rake with tattoos on her shoulders; her arms muscular from lifting her children. Kate supposed she didn’t need an expensive gym subscription to keep her figure: running around after four kids probably did it.

She thought about the nights she and Debbie had spent in the Neptune, eyeing up the boys they fancied, getting drunk on cheap vodka cocktails. They’d had so much in common then. Homework stress, clothes stress, boy stress. The boredom of living in Pennfleet stress. Debbie had pierced Kate’s ears with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a needle in her bedroom. They’d painted each other’s toenails and dreamed about getting away. Kate had managed it. Debbie hadn’t.

What was the difference between them, she wondered?

And who was the happier?

‘You got any?’

‘Any?’

‘Kids.’ Debbie looked her up and down and decided that gave her the answer. ‘Nah. You look way too together.’

Kate managed a laugh. ‘I live in New York. I’ve got this crazy job. No way could I fit kids in. I can’t even fit a boyfriend in.’

‘It sounds perfect.’ Debbie laughed, crooked her spare arm round Kate’s neck and hugged her, swamping her in a cloud of cheap perfume and hairspray and cigarettes. ‘I’ll see you later, sweetheart. I’ve got to get this one to nursery.’

She ran off down the hill.

Kate watched after her. It had been strange but lovely to see her. She had often wondered where her mates were now, what they were doing, and she always felt a tiny needle of guilt that she hadn’t kept up with any of them. When she’d left for New York social media hadn’t been established in the way it was now, making it easy for people to keep in touch. She didn’t have time to trawl through Facebook looking for old schoolfriends – and none of them had ever tracked her down. Re-connecting with Debbie had given her an unexpected lift. Debbie had been so kind, so genuine. Their friendship, it seemed, had survived the intervening years.

As she climbed further up to the crest of the hill, Kate reached the point where she could see right over the top of the town and out to sea. She had forgotten quite how spectacular it was, and stopped for a moment to drink in the infinite shades of turquoise and ice blue and slate and silver and steel and glittery deep green. The slightest change in light could change the colour of the water, depending on where the sun and the clouds were hovering.

Summer had long slipped away on the tide, disappearing over the horizon to the other side of the world, and in its place was autumn, demure and subtle and in many ways more alluring, with her softer, more mellow light and her wispy, misty mornings.

Her mother loved this time of year. Kate remembered Joy’s hands snagged by blackberry tangles, and the ritual making of bramble jelly and sloe gin. There would, she knew, be ranks of jars lined up in the larder, all labelled in her mother’s comforting handwriting. What was she to do with them? She couldn’t take them back in her luggage. She couldn’t imagine them lined up on the stainless steel shelf in her apartment, which only had room for exotic coffee beans and expensive olives. Would she just throw them away? It seemed a waste. Or give them to her mother’s friends? Did people want jam and pickle made by a dead person? Was it ghoulish, or the perfect memento?

By now she’d arrived at the medical centre, an ugly flat-roofed building which had caused great excitement when it was built twenty years ago. Kate could remember her mother’s glee at the brand-spanking-new facilities. It was now looking pretty tired, with grey carpet, yellow walls and hundreds of out-of-date magazines.

She only had to wait five minutes before she was called through to Doctor Webster, who had been their family GP since Kate was small, and was now in her early sixties, a slight woman with cropped grey hair and a perspicacious gaze. Kate remembered going to her over the years for ringworm, a lingering chest infection, a persistent sty – and, as a teenager, asking to be put on the pill and praying Dr Webster wouldn’t mention it to her mother …

‘My dear, I wondered if it was you when I saw your name. I’m so sorry.’ The doctor clasped Kate’s hand in both of hers. Her touch was cool and reassuring. ‘You know how very much we valued your mother here at the surgery. I’m hoping to be able to come to the funeral and pay my respects.’ Dr Webster smiled. ‘I learned a lot from her over the years. She was a very wise and special woman.’

‘I know,’ said Kate. ‘She’s a very hard act to follow. But thank you. It’s lovely to hear how much she meant to people.’

‘And what can I do for you?’

Kate tried not to grip the handles of her bag too tightly. Now she came to vocalise it, she was embarrassed.

‘I’ve just realised I left all my medication in the bathroom at the airport.’

‘What medication was it?’

Kate looked down. It was hard to explain without sounding desperate.

‘Well, my sleeping tablets. I can’t sleep without them. I’m worried about how I’m going to get through the next few days, especially with the jet lag and the time difference …’

She could see Dr Webster processing the information. She steeled herself for a grilling.

‘How long have you been prescribed sleeping tablets?’

‘Um … I don’t know.’ Kate tried to remember the first time she’d asked the swanky Upper East Side doctor for some help to get her to sleep. ‘Maybe … two years?’

‘Two years? Without a break?’

Dr Webster’s gaze bored into her. Kate knew she wouldn’t get away with a lie. She was the kind of woman there was no point in lying to.

‘I’ve got a stressful job. I work anti-social hours.’

‘What is it you do, again? I know from your mother it was something very high powered …’

Kate looked away. She couldn’t, just couldn’t, tell this intelligent, hardworking, conscientious woman that, when it came down to it, no matter what fancy title you gave it, she was a party planner.

‘I’m an … executive … events … executive. I have to be on call twenty-four seven.’

In case some princessy party thrower got arsey about her guest list or her goodie bags.

Dr Webster didn’t comment. She just smiled.

‘It’s a tough job,’ said Kate weakly, ‘but someone’s got to do it.’

‘When are you going back?’

‘Only about a week. I’m expected back at work as soon as possible.’

Compassionate leave wasn’t really in Carlos’s lexicon. She had an open ticket but she’d sworn not to leave him too long unattended.

Dr Webster consulted her computer.

‘I’m not keen on prescribing sleeping pills long term without a detailed history and some sort of sleep management plan, but under the circumstances … Your body clock is going to be all over the place anyway, and it’s a tough time. I don’t think throwing you into cold turkey is going to help matters.’ She started to type. ‘I’ll give you enough to tide you over until you get home. If you need more, come back and see me.’

‘Thank you.’ It was worrying, thought Kate, how relieved she was. Maybe that was a sign of dependence?

Who was she kidding? Of course she was dependent. She couldn’t remember her last night’s sleep without them. She took them as a matter of course.

Dr Webster looked at her, stern but concerned.

‘I really recommend you find some way of coming to terms with your sleep problems without resorting to medication. Lifestyle, diet, exercise – these can all be a cause but they can also help. Relaxation. Yoga—’

Kate’s phone chirruped in her bag. There must be a stronger signal here at the surgery, and all her messages were getting through at once. She resisted the urge to burrow in her bag and check them immediately.

‘Sorry,’ she apologised.

Dr Webster smiled.

‘Being a slave to your phone doesn’t help. I give myself a rule not to check mine after six p.m. I shut it in a drawer when I get home.’

Kate tried not to laugh at the suggestion. She might as well have said don’t breathe after six p.m. That was when the really important messages started to come through. From drunken clients or bolshy chefs or flaky performers.

‘Try to find a doctor who will help you with your dependence. Rather than enabling it.’

Easier said than done, thought Kate. She felt sorry that she wasn’t going to be here longer. She knew Dr Webster wouldn’t indulge her dependence for any longer than was necessary.

‘I’ll deal with it as soon as I get back.’

Doctor Webster handed over the prescription. ‘I hope the next few days go as well as can be expected.’

Kate almost snatched it out of her hand. She’d have just enough time to go and fill it at the chemist before getting home, changing and making it to the church.

Kate filled her prescription at the chemist halfway down the high street, the same one where she had bought her first lipstick, countless Alka-Seltzers after a heavy night at the Neptune, and the pregnancy test for Debbie when she’d had a scare. A chemist, she thought, held so many secrets, as her tablets were handed to her in a white paper bag.

She hated herself for the relief she felt.

Then she hurried home.

She’d hung her funeral outfit up the night before to get rid of the creases. A black Prada dress and courts. A pair of sheer black tights. A three-strand pearl necklace – fake, but expensive. She sighed as she looked at the clothes on the hanger. She would look ridiculous. Totally overdressed. It wasn’t as if she needed to impress anyone. This wasn’t Manhattan, where to be anything other than immaculate was a hanging offence. This outfit was totally inappropriate. She would look as if she thought she was better than everyone else. Her mum’s friends would be turning up in whatever they happened to be wearing that day. Pennfleet didn’t stand on ceremony.

Nothing else she’d brought with her seemed suitable.

And so she opened her wardrobe. It smelled of the lavender-stuffed hangers her mum had given her one Christmas. And the Dewberry Body Shop scent Kate used to wear. She breathed in her youth: so sweet. It was comforting.

She pawed through the remaining clothes: baggy jumpers, bright cotton skirts, a denim jacket, a chunky Arran cardigan with a hood that she used to wear all winter. At the back was her favourite dress, the one she had worn to death since she’d bought it with the money her parents had given her for her eighteenth, on a shopping trip to Exeter. It was dark-green velvet, with tight sleeves and covered buttons all down the front and a fishtail skirt. She’d thought she was the bee’s knees in it.

The dress still fitted. Like a dream. She slipped on a pair of flat black suede pumps with it. With her hair down, and a pair of earrings she found in her dressing-table drawer, she looked more like the girl who had left Pennfleet all those years ago.

This was the girl her mother would want her to be. At least for today. Joy had been proud of everything Kate had achieved, of course she had, yet Kate felt a little like a stranger whenever her mum had come to New York. As if she was playing or pretending to be someone she wasn’t.